She emptied her stomach twice and broke down after the second time. Hopelessness swamped her the moment the guards came for her. They had to take her by the arms before she could move her feet. Thankfully, they were gentle with her.
She concentrated on each step and wished she’d spent the day differently, but she couldn’t imagine how.
As they passed through the great hall, a small child darted forward, then stopped at the sight of her. Oblivious of the moment, he smiled. His blue eyes sparkled with interest before his somber mother scooped him up and took him away.
The bailey was filled with people, their faces full of pity as they marked her progress. Some looked away, unable to meet her eyes. Others offered sad nods, some whispered prayers. These were the people of Todlaw, who had welcomed her, protected her. None blamed her for the trouble that had befallen them, though it was defending her sister that had started it all.
Still no sign of Wickham. No sign of a pyre.
The guards led her around the north side of the main tower, past the second and beyond, all the way to the great curtain wall. People stepped back to reveal an open postern and she was led outside. But not to freedom.
Beyond the wall, halfway up the hill, the dreaded pyre awaited. A healthy pile of wood with a thick pole in the center…
The walk up the hill took time, but she was grateful for the chance to stretch her legs, to feel her heart pounding in her chest—proof she was still alive, at least for now. It gave her immeasurable pain, however, to know that this was what Bella must have felt as she was led to her own stake.
Fifty yards away from the pyre, to the west, stood a dozen sober warriors, each with a bannerman at his shoulder. Campbell, Lennox, Steward. And one imposing creature she knew must be the Earl of Mar.
A lazy breeze toyed with the banners. Reds and blacks, silvers and blues. Diamonds, stars, and flowers. A galley, a hand, crosses and saltires. The device on the Keith banner was hundreds of years old, dating back to the days of King Macbeth.
Next up the hill, a platform had been erected. Despite signs of digging, chairs sat on a slight angle and upon the first two sat Laird Stephan and Atholl. Their undisguised anticipation gave her a start. Such cruel men.
In the center of the platform sat The Regent of Scotland. If she should feel somehow honored, she did not. His expression was unreadable. Behind him, his guards. To his left sat James, Robert, and Stout Duncan. And beyond them, to the side of the platform, her beloved Flanders was shackled to a chair.
As she passed the platform, Flanders stood and bowed to her, along with all three Lairds Duncan. Beyond Flanders, Hemming, Snorre and Rolf bowed their heads, followed by the rest of the crowd that had already arrived.
Out of everyone on that hillside, all but two pitied her. Was she to die just to please two monsters whom not even the regent respected?
Without pause, she was turned and led toward the pyre. No miracle interrupted her steady progress. No man in black appeared before her to spirit her away. Though she slowed when they drew close to the woodpile, she was given no chance to prepare herself before the two guards lifted her off her feet and carried her to the center, where a small platform sat at the base of the stake. There, they allowed her to gain her balance again before they took her arms and tied them to either side of the pole.
Too fast. It’s happening too fast! Wickham! Where are you?
It was Flanders who answered back.He will come. He will come!
She had her confirmation. Flanders knew of the plan after all. And maybe, just maybe, he knew more than she did.
Despite that hope, tremors wracked through her and made it more difficult for the guards to tie her hands. Both men apologized while they fumbled behind her. Even if she wanted to cry out, to fight and run, she was powerless, frozen with fear.
“Now,” the man on her left whispered. “We’ve left it loose. Do not let them see. Act as though ye’re tied firm, aye?”
What? These men were helping?
She managed a nod.
She found Flanders again. With the Duncans blocking the others’ view and Moray’s guards watching something down the hill, he was attempting to free his hands from the shackles. Might he truly get free? If Wickham failed her…
She glanced around, tried to imagine which direction she and Flanders might run. But her attention caught on the people of Todlaw now pouring through the postern and marching up the hill, gathering around the pyre in a wide circle. Guards kept them at a distance, but their presence was a comfort nonetheless. If she and Flanders did manage to flee, they wouldn’t be stopped.
Alas, her trembling continued. Even her hair pulsed in unison with the pounding of her heart. The rough wood pressed against her back, the ropes began to sag, so she leaned slightly forward to lift her hands higher on the pole and held them there.
The strong smell of pitch explained the black smears on the wood. Though, as the sun disappeared, it was more difficult to see shadow against shadow. Pitch would catch quickly and spread the fire. Fast. Hot. It was meant to be a mercy. But she wanted anything but fast!
She desperately searched the crowd for any sign of a man in black, but she couldn’t see him. Lord help her, he wasn’t there! Her panic rose to drown her on the inside.
Flanders, I'm afraid.Wickham is supposed to take me away, but he’s not here!
If he fails, I vow I will not. I’m nearly free. Look at me. Only at me.
She focused on Flanders, watching as he subtly twisted his wrists against the shackles and pulled on the chains attached to the chair, but the coming dark made it hard to see. Impossible to find his eyes now. If only someone would light a torch…
